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by s.a.

Subject: [glass_onion] FIC: Tuesday (BtVS) (1/1) Date: Thursday, June 27, 2002 5:32 PM

Title: Tuesday
Author: s.a.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Giles/Ethan.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, the subtext would be text. Spoilers: Specifically for "The Dark Ages." Feedback: I do morally doubtful things for feedback. email: Distribution: My site, List archives, BFA. Just ask. Improv: #45 (cinnamon -- dust -- leather -- sway)

Author's Notes: To Amy, Elena, and Ple, without whom I do not write. At least, not nearly so well. Ple! I killed your plot bunny! And most especially to Teppy, on her mumblemumble birthday.

Summary: "I think we might have found a new game, Ripper."

The hazelnut coffee had a backtaste of cinnamon. Giles brooded into his coffee cup, wondering if perhaps he shouldn't liven the brown liquid up with a bit of whiskey. Or rather, a lot of whiskey.

That and the vodka had been his dearest company following Buffy's death. He'd come home from a night of slaying to restless images of her supine form, determined to drown it out with a glass or four.

Now he sat in his brown leather chair, the one molded to fit his body, gazing into decaffinated coffee that was far too sweet. He was trying to relax, trying to sleep without the booze this time because he recognized the old pattern, and this would be something else from his past that would cut him too deeply.

His mind searched for images to occupy his mind, something to lead him from that well-trod train of thought that endlessly looped in a chorus of, "You've failed!" The voice was grating, and sounded far too much like Ethan.

Ethan. There was an image to get lost in. Ethan was a mass of contradictions, something that gave endless joy to the maker of Chaos. He gained an odd serenity from the insanity he brought wherever he went, and Giles could remember nights after starting a good barfight, watching the occupants tear each other to pieces and often joining in, and then going home with Ethan, falling into peaceful, languid sex.

His face was a paradox as well - skin soft, unlined, capable of radiating such innocence and goodwill. The harsh angles of his face blurred that perception, though, and hinted at all that was hidden beneath boyish smirks. Ethan's body was wiry, thin, aptly hiding the sheer power he wielded. His voice ... well, that voice carried promise and mystery and undeniable attraction.

Giles had popped the button on his jeans without realizing it, and his betraying fingers itched to pull the zipper, freeing straining cock.


Of course he knew he'd never fully be free of Ethan, in any sense of the word. That was an issue he'd resigned himself to long ago. His cock seemed to feel the same way.

With a sigh, he grasped the base of his cock, focusing on the images that ran through his brain. The one particular memory found him as he ran his thumb up and down.

Twenty or so years ago, possibly more as they tended to get quite smashed quite often those days, he and Ethan stumbled back to their flat from a particularly crazed night out. Clothes slid off both their bodies; the thin, hard, angular forms bumping, cocks swaying and vying for friction. In that memory his favorite image of Ethan resided. Flushed, divested of the ridiculous costumes he wore, disheveled and begging to be kissed just a bit harder.

Giles almost let his groan become audible as he lost himself in the world of that night, squeezing lightly on his cock and teasing, just as Ethan had always done.

The old rhythm snuck up on him, much like Ethan himself, and he almost wished the damned man wouldn't occupy his mind so wholly. Almost. Ethan was certainly better than the endless agony of alcohol-muffled pain he'd been doing his best to repress. Ethan, who filled him to the point of breaking, who thrust so hard and fast and then admired his handiwork: a sore, reddened ass that begged to be bruised.

He could almost feel the pulsing ache now, Giles mused as he sped up his grip. Up, down, up, down, squeezing almost painfully on the upstroke and making ghostly movements on the down. It came to him as if it were Ethan's hand, and Giles let his eyes flutter closed to immerse himself in memory.

Ethan had always wanted him that way, and he taught Ripper to love it. Even now, with his more docile lovers, with Olivia, Giles always found himself craving something ... harsher. But no, we won't think of Olivia now, he told himself.

Stroke, squeeze, stroke.

In sex, Ethan's contradictions came to the fore. Yes, he loved to give with loosely bridled control, but when it came to Ethan's own ass, Ripper was always cautioned to go slowly. He did, not simply because Ethan demanded it, but because it was entrancing to watch Ethan lose himself in sensation. He'd forget the pretense, the facade, if he were touched in that spot in that moment. Those were the times Ripper craved, when he had a willing Ethan in his mercy.

His left hand fondled his balls, rubbing them with the pad of his fingers and teasing them with practiced ease. It had been too long, too long since he'd allowed himself this release, this delve into the past. Giles fingered the soft, sensitive area between his balls and anus, and let his mind float back to the memory of that day.

Ethan said it was a Tuesday, because on Tuesdays they would head out to seedy bars and drink themselves into a stupor. Every day was Tuesday. Ripper would watch with a sneer as Ethan preened in front of the mirror, arranging his longish hair just so and pulling the wrinkles out of one of his tight t-shirts. Ripper loved those shirts - they were so easy to tear Ethan out of when they stumbled home.

Ethan entered first, always the center of attention, and Ripper flanked him, watching his back and his ass with equal ease. They sat in a dark corner, sipping pints and making eyes at the barmaids with leers plastered on. If Ethan managed to down his pint before Ripper, Ethan would get first pick of the girls; likewise for Ripper.

That night Eliza had stumbled by, shoving the boys over to make room. They'd talked and laughed and made fun of many a drunkard before downing enough alcohol to make tongues loosen just so.

"He's a magician, y'see," slurred Eliza. "He knows stuff, dangerous stuff, an' he'll give you a look if you, ah," and she paused, knowingly looking the rather sloshed boys up and down, "if you give him a good show."

Ripper saw Ethan make up his mind quickly, though in retrospect he was certain the alcohol helped. They were to go and see this man, see if he had any tricks up his sleeve that Ethan himself couldn't reproduce.

Off they went, leaving Eliza slumped with beer in hand at the tavern. Ripper assumed his menacing look, and stood behind Ethan - backup, as always. Ethan knocked on the door, snapping his fingers lightly behind his back. The boys were blinded by the darkness after the brigh harshness of the streetlamps when they were led into a room.

They were seated in the parlor, told to wait. Ripper clamped a hand down on Ethan's arm, for safety and perhaps for reassurance Ethan would never admit he needed. They waited.

A small red light came on, and their eyes caught sight of a man standing in the doorframe. He was dressed simply, tailored shirt tucked into trousers, mid-fifties, well-kept beard and a rather annoying smile on his face.

"You boys like magic, then?" the man asked.

Ethan formed his face into a parody of a smile. "Like to do it. Good at it too."

"Is that so? Well then, boy, why don't you show me a trick or two?"

"We didn't come here to show our privates - came here to see yours."

"It has a price."

"What is it, then?"

"I think you did come here to, what was it? 'Show your privates?'"

Ethan glanced back at Ripper, then again at the man. A questioning look, a shared nod, and Ethan gave a matter of fact "Very well, then," before turning around and pulling Ripper into a hungry kiss.

Stunned at first, then easily engrossed, Ripper met the kiss with clawing hands and fierce passion - tinged with obvious possession for the sake of voyeur in the doorway.

Ethan unbuttoned Ripper's denims, pulled them down, and swallowed his cock. Halfway through the proceedings he stood, and finished Ripper off by hand while looking at the man who seemed casually riveted on his actions. As Ripper shuddered and came, Ethan brought his hand to his mouth and licked a stripe through the white. "Good enough show?" he said coyly as Ripper pulled his pants back up and glowered a bit.

The man stepped down into the room and nodded. "It was. Good show."

"I do my best."

"I've no doubt of that."

The man rolled up his sleeves, revealing a hint of black ink, and opened an unassuming brown armoire to reveal a shrine of sorts. "Here we go. You," he nodded to Ethan, "come here. Put your hand on the mark, close your eyes, and we'll see if this bit of magic isn't its own reward."

Ethan complied, throwing a cheeky grin at Ripper, who had returned to the couch. He spread his fingers on the stone tablet, white with a black squiggly symbol, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. Out of nowhere, the man punched Ethan out cold, and he slumped against the armoire, hand still on the symbol.

It was as if a hard, fierce rain that came down swiftly and unexpectedly, pounding hard enough to shatter the windowpanes - that was Eyghon, though Ripper didn't know its name. He only saw Ethan being possessed, his head mutating from human to demon and back again. Ripper was on Ethan in a moment, trying to pull him away, and when Ethan didn't move, Ripper turned his attentions to their host.

"Get him out of that," Ripper growled at the man's disarming smile.

"He'll come out of it, when it's done with him."

"You fucking sod, get him out of it NOW."

There was a distinctly annoyed air about the man now. "I told you, when Ehyghon's finished with him, he'll come out of it. And I think he might complain if you try to take him out of it now - it's a glorious-"

The man's words were cut off by Ripper's hands around his neck. Ripper pushed him to the floor, tightening his grip and pounding the man's head onto the hardwood. "I fucking told you to fucking get him out of it!"

This power stunk like petrol exhaust - acrid, harsh, and absolutely necessary. The man was harming Ethan - the man was dead. There was a rattling, futile breath, and his hands scrabbled at Ripper's face, unsuccessfully trying to dislodge him. Ripper saw a last jerk of muscle, a slackened expression, and finally the man's eyes rolled back in his head before he stood. He took one look at the hands that had just killed, and grabbed Ethan, yanking him from the shrine.

Ethan sucked in a desperate breath. "Holy fucking god," he breathed shakily. "That was - that was-"

"God. You're so fucking stupid, Ethan. We never should have come here, you stupid idiot."

Ethan turned shining eyes to him and said, "I think we might have found a new game, Ripper."

Giles was pulled from his reverie by a sensation in his fingertips that he knew all too well - pulsing power that demanded to be fed. His were fingers that killed, fingers that itched to do it again. He killed to save Ethan, to save Buffy. He killed because he liked it. And despite all the killing, he still failed them both. Giles grunted as he squeezed once more and came, panting back into the chair.

Memories should be left to dust.

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